


A Shot Through the Heart

by auchterlonie



Series: An Agent's Life [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death Fix, Coulson Lives, Gen, M/M, beer and a sandwich, popinjays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 02:47:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auchterlonie/pseuds/auchterlonie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson has noticed some irregularities in Clint's reports. He wants an explanation. Clint gives him a lot more than he ever expected.<br/>(Can be read as a stand alone or as part of a series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shot Through the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of a series, but can be read as a stand-alone.  
> Edited 8/11 - very minor edit. I described Clint as an "Iron Man wannabe" at one point to keep with the Marvel comics timeline, but it creates a slight conflict with the timeline in my story Push. So, I changed this to be more generic: "superhero wannabe."

Clint Barton sat on a rooftop ledge, his back propped against the 18th century gargoyle, his legs stretched along on the ledge. He casually sucked on an ice pop while watching the sun set against the cityscape.

Phil Coulson walked confidentially along the ledge towards him. “So this is where you’ve been.”

Clint continued staring at the city, sucking on his ice pop. “You can’t have any.”

“I didn’t come for your ice pop, Barton.”

“Good. Cause its one of those hipster made ones. Ginger something or other. It’s good.”

Phil sat down on the ledge, letting his feet dangle along the building. He took in the sunset and the city at large. It was a rather pleasant view and he could see why Clint chose this spot.

“We need to talk,” he said after a moment.

“No we don’t.”

“Don’t be contrary.”

 “Don’t _you_ be contrary.”

Phil raised his eyebrows at that and turned to look at Clint, who continued to stare at the city and suck on his ice pop.

“Ok then…” Phil got up and started back down the ledge.

Clint frowned and looked towards him. “I thought you wanted to talk?”

Phil stopped and smiled, but didn’t look back. “Are you ready?”

Clint frowned and looked at his ice pop.

“You can bring the ice pop.”

Clint’s smile instantly broadened. He stuck the pop in his mouth and started down the ledge after Phil.

***

They stopped at a tiny, unmarked bar – the kind of place you had to know existed in order to know it existed. Phil took in the place in one glace. Paperbacks lined the dark wood bay windowsill, a picture of Eddie Merckx in his Molteni jersey hung on the kitchen door, and the only other person in the place was a mustachioed barman in a pinstriped shirt and brown corduroys, who was leaning against the backsplash mirror and eating a salad. Mustard vinaigrette by the smell of it.  Phil slowly turned his head and looked sideways at Clint.

“What’s with you and hipsters?”

“Relax, they make a great steak sandwich,” he said, nodding towards the barman and heading towards a side table for two.

“As long as it’s not ‘deconstructed.’” Phil eyed the barman, who coolly returned the stare and continued eating. Phil’s eyes narrowed. The barman continued chewing.

“Would you relax? Get a beer and a sandwich. Ask me your questions.”

A row of small tables lined the opposite wall, which displayed a large, vaguely tree shaped metal sculpture with bird designs at even intervals along the branches. It looked old and salvaged. Clint had grabbed a table directly below it and Phil moved to settle into a chair.

The barman wordlessly appeared and hovered, still chewing a mouthful of salad. Phil looked around the table and realized there were no menus. He looked to Clint who mouthed “beer and a sandwich” at him.

Phil narrowed his eyes and repeated “beer and a sandwich?”

The barman nodded and turned to Clint.

“Beer and a sandwich.”

The barman nodded again and disappeared through the kitchen door. Phil watched him go and looked again at the picture of Eddie Merckx. Eddie “the Cannibal,” the greatest Belgian cyclist in the history of the sport. Then he looked up at a small, antique looking wooden bird perched above the door jam. It seemed very familiar, though he couldn’t place why. There was something about this place that wasn’t what it seemed.

“Phil?” Clint called, snapping his fingers for extra attention. “You wanted to talk, so… talk.”

Phil turned and looked at Clint. He’d kicked his chair out a bit and leaned back, arms folded across his chest. He looked comfortable, like he belonged in the chair and had sat there many times before. Phil considered all this and decided to file it away for future conversation. They had business to conduct first.

“Paris,” he began. “I got the sense there was an awful lot you didn’t put in your report. Same with Tuscon, same with Calgary.  I want to know what’s missing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure.” Phil scowled. This contrary act was somewhat typical of Clint, but Phil didn’t want to see if drag on all night.

“Nah, I don’t think you are.”

Phil looked at him for a solid moment and Clint held his stare. He seemed to be absentmindedly chewing on nothing. Phil knew from experience that Clint’s mind was rarely ‘absent,’ so he took the bait. He leaned a little closer, folding his hands on the table.

“Is that so? And why is that?”

The barman returned from the kitchen and began pouring the beers. Clint turned to watch and Phil continued to sit patiently, content to wait him out. After another minute, the barman brought the two beers, a darker one for Phil, a lighter one for Clint. Then he went back to the bar and occupied himself with a newspaper.

Clint took a sip of his beer and watched Phil. Phil did the same and found the beer was good – really good. He looked down at it, savoring the flavor. When he looked up, Clint had a broad smile on his face.

“It’s good, right?”

“Yes, it is. But you’re avoiding my question.”

“Yeah…..” Clint said, kicking back even further in his chair. He was going to tip over soon if he got any more relaxed. “What do you really want to know?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean, would you rather know what’s missing or why it’s missing?”

Phil stopped to consider. There were always games to be played with Clint, but this conversation definitely wasn’t going the way he’d thought. It seemed like the stakes were a little higher than with his usual, contrary banter.

Phil sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, vaguely mirroring Clint. He eyed him and the overly casual way he was holding himself, the way he slowly sipped his beer. This was clearly a test and Phil was beginning to get the impression it was an important one.

So he considered his options. The missions had all been successful. No one had been injured, save for those who were supposed to be. There had been no exposure for S.H.I.E.L.D. in the media. Heck, the missions had even come in under budget. If something was missing from the reports, it wasn’t likely that S.H.I.E.L.D. would need to worry about it, unless Clint had acted to protect something – or someone – from the agency. If Clint had made some irrational, emotional choice, than that choice could potentially come back to bite them later on. In which case, Phil definitely wanted to know the ‘what’.

On the other hand, Clint had a lot of experience making tough decisions and knew well S.H.I.E.L.D.’s methods for handling problems. Plus, in all the years they’d worked together, Phil had never once seen Clint make a choice that wasn’t on the side of justice. If Clint had made a rational decision, or even a human one, to hide something from S.H.I.E.L.D., and Phil then exposed it, Phil would not only undermine whatever good Clint had done, he’d undermine the trust they’d built.

So that was the real question – did Phil trust Clint to make good decisions? It was a test to see if Phil had Clint’s back.

Which was a no-brainer for Phil. He’d always have Clint’s back, games or no games.

He smiled, raised his glass and said, “why.”

Clint smiled broadly and snapped his chair back to its normal position. He raised his own glass.

“Good choice.”

The two men sat and sipped their beers in silence.

***

Their sandwiches had come and the barman had disappeared. They’d sat and ate in silence. Phil was more than happy to admit it was an excellent steak sandwich. He’d cleaned his plate and looked up to watch Clint work on the last few bites.

“So?” he’d asked before draining his second beer.

“So, what?”

“Why?”

Clint chuckled to himself and popped the last bite in his mouth. He kicked back in his chair again and looked immensely proud of himself.

“To get your attention,” he said. He took another sip of beer. “I didn’t think it would take three missions, though. You’re slipping.” He raised his glass in mock salute and drained the rest of his beer.

“Well you have it now.”

“Do I, Phil?”

Phil scowled and pushed backwards in his own chair a bit, wondering if he’d get a straight answer at all tonight.

“No, I’m serious, Phil. There was a time when you missed nothing. You would walk into a place and size it up – who was where and what was going on. We’ve been sitting here, what, 20 minutes? Have you figured out where you are yet?”

Phil suddenly realized he hadn’t and took a good look around. He started to notice all the little details he’d missed. The gold trim lines around the mirrored backsplash were shaped as arrows and the bar’s corner posts were carved in the shape of bows. Then he noticed a faded photo of the Swordsman taped to the cash register and everything started to click. The antique bird and the metal tree sculpture were popinjays, traditional Belgian archery targets. And of course, there was the clear fact Clint felt so comfortable here. Where they were was, in hindsight, so obvious, it was genuinely jarring to the normally keen Phil that he had missed so much.

“This is your place.”

Clint nodded.

Phil considered this and then exaggeratedly looked around at the empty space. “It doesn’t look like it’s doing so well.”

“Well… we’re closed tonight.”

“And the Eddie Merckx?”

“Oh, that’s Remy’s. Guy is nuts for cycling. I’ll introduce you in a bit.”

Clint stood up and collected their plates and glasses. He took them over and stacked them on the bar.

“Look, Phil. You haven’t been in the field since you… since you got back. And I get it. You took a hell of a shot to the chest. It’s pretty badass that you’re even still kicking. But…”

Phil didn’t like where this was going and really wished he had another beer.

“Paris was an accident, actually. I needed to track down something for Remy and I didn’t think my taking off needed to go in the report. But when you didn’t notice… I got to wondering if Loki had knocked you back a step or two. So I disappeared for a little while in Tuscon and Calgary as well, just to see if you’d notice.”

Phil snapped his attention back to Clint, embarrassment beginning to take hold. Phil wasn’t used to missing things and even less used to being called out on them.  He didn’t like it. But Clint didn’t seem to be relishing the conversation either and that took a lot of the sting out.

“Clint, I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”

Clint nodded. “I know. Can I show you something?”

Phil nodded and then followed as Clint led the way through a narrow doorway tucked between the bar and the kitchen. The corridor was long, dark, and brick-lined. It had obviously been an alleyway at some time in the neighborhood’s life, long since incorporated into the building. It opened into a shockingly large courtyard lit up with lighting strung along the walls. It had a short, manicured lawn, a few fruit trees planted along the sides, and three stories up was strung mesh netting across the entire width.

The need for the netting was immediately obvious. A small group of neighborhood kids, each with a bow, stood below a tall popinjay ‘tree’ which boasted a dozen or so brightly colored targets perched along the ‘branches’.  They were listening intently to an older man who was explaining tactics through a thick, French accent.

“That’s Remy. He’s amazing. He makes most of my arrows by hand.”

Phil noticed the barman standing off to the side holding a clutch of blunt-tipped practice arrows. The barman nodded and moved towards the kids, handing arrows to two of the young men.

Phil and Clint stood and watched as the rest of the group backed away, leaving the young men with their bows and arrows. The first rubbed his nose and hitched up his pants, then pulled back on the bow and took aim at a middle branch. The second seemed more relaxed. He lightly pulled back his arrow but kept it aimed at the ground.

“Watch this,“ Clint said with barely surprised pride.

The first young man fired, knocking a blue target off the branch. Then, the second young man raised his arrow and fired. The arrow hit the blue target before it had fallen more than half way down the ‘tree.’

A cry of ‘ooooh!’ let up from the watching group and the two young archers hive-fived in an extremely elaborate, obviously rehearsed manner. Remy nodded and clapped the young men on the back, bringing them back into the huddle.

Clint beamed at Phil. “Aren’t they great? I love these kids.”

Phil smiled back, duly impressed by everything – the bar, the courtyard, the kids, and especially by Clint. He was deeply touched Clint would bring him into this world. It added such depth to a person he thought he knew so well.

“These guys… you should have seen them when I first found them. Nobody’d given them the time of day. The oldest one was 15 and I mean everyone in these kids’ lives had either given up on them or flat out abandoned them.”

He turned to look at Phil. “I remembered what that felt like. And I remembered how important it was when you showed up and saw something in me. It changed my whole life.”

Phil was taken aback. When he’d found Clint, he was a costumed superhero wannabe being hunted by police for a series of unfortunate misunderstandings. Phil was still young in his S.H.I.E.L.D. career, but was so convinced of this kid’s potential, he’d taken a few risks to bring him to the agency. He knew it had been a life changing decision for Clint, but he hadn’t thought Clint dwelled on it much.

Phil started to get a little emotional and Clint took bro-pity on him.

“Well, don’t go and cry about it. Here.” He walked over to a doorway that led from the courtyard to the kitchen. He returned a moment later sporting two bottles of beer. “Here.”

They each took a sip and looked back at the young archers, who were packing up and heading towards the kitchen.

“Remy and I give them three squares and try to give them a little direction, that’s all. But sometimes just knowing someone actually gives a crap about you and wants you to be successful at something… even something as old school as archery… sometimes that’s all it takes.”

“I’m really touched you wanted me to see this.”

“Good, cause now it’s your turn,” he said walking towards the popinjay.

“My turn to what, exactly?”

“To hit the target,” Clint called over his shoulder as he strode across the lawn. Phil stayed where he was, clutching his beer.

“I’m sorry?”

“Get over here, Coulson.”

Phil set the beer down and followed across the lawn. Clint handed him a bow that had been left for them.

“That red target on the lower branch. I want you to try and hit it.”

“And why am I going to do that, exactly.”

Clint scowled. “Don’t be contrary. Just hit the target.”

Phil smirked back and took an arrow. He pulled it back on the bow and tried to ignore the pain that suddenly stretched across his scarred chest. He pushed that pain from his mind and loosed his shot, but the arrow shot just wide.

“Ooo, close one,” Clint said. He handed Phil a second arrow and moved close behind him. He started to reach around him to help guide the shot, but Phil shrugged him off.

“I’m proficient with a number of weapons, Barton, I can shoot an arrow.”

“Ooo, big shot. Go ahead then, Agent Coulson. Fire away,” he said while backing away, arms raised in mock surrender.

Phil licked his lips and again took careful aim. This time, he purposely overstretched, making his body take the pain. He loosed the shot, but he’d overcorrected and it sailed wide again.

Clint chuckled and handed him a third arrow. Pride was definitely on the line for this one, so Phil paused to think. Then he changed his position slightly and bowed his shoulders to make his chest more concave. He took a more shallow breath, aimed, and fired. The little red target went spiraling off the branch and Phil felt an unnecessarily strong feeling of pride in it.

He turned to look at Clint, who smiled and slow clapped. Phil rested both hands on the bow and considered the moment.

“Why did you want me to do that?”

Clint looked upward in exaggerated astonishment. “Can’t anything just be for fun with you, Phil? Can’t you just enjoy the moment?”

Phil chuckled. “Yeah, I suppose I can.”

“Good.” Clint walked over and took the bow from him. “Because the ‘why’ was to teach you a little humility.” Then in a blur, he fired several arrows in quick succession, knocking a dozen targets from their branches before the first one struck had reached the ground. Then he started walking around the lawn, collecting the fallen arrows.

“Right now, you’re trying to do everything by yourself, Phil. You went through all that rehab by yourself, did all your qualification training yourself, and these last few months you’ve been trying to shot call all the missions yourself, too.”

He picked up the last arrow and pointed it at Phil’s chest for emphasis. “I know how bad you want to be like you were again, but Phil listen to me. It’s gonna take time. You don’t need to be Superman rushing back into things. Sometimes when you move too quick, you miss important things.”

He stepped closer to Phil. “That third arrow – what did you differently?”

Phil shrugged and started walking towards where he’d left his beer. “I changed my position,” he’d called back over his shoulder.

“And?”

“And… nothing.”

 “When you couldn’t do it like you used to, you slowed down and you really thought about what you needed to do differently. When you admitted the pain was stopping you, you adjusted and hit the target. Do I need to be more blunt than that?”

Phil frowned and looked away. Clint slowly walked towards him and took the beer from his hands, took a sip, and handed it back. It forced Phil to look at him.

“I’m telling you I give a crap, Phil. Let me help you adjust.” Then he kissed him and Phil felt the pain in his chest recede just a little bit more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
